The Night of the Code Stealers
by Deana
Summary: Jim and Artie are sent on a mission to retrieve some coded information, but Artie is attacked and injured when the message is stolen from him. Who took it, why, and what did the message say? Neither agent even knows that it's a matter of life or death...
1. Failed Mission

**The Night of the Code Stealers**  
A Wild Wild West story  
By Deana

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The shooting star that streamed across the night sky jolted Artemus Gordon into realizing that he was lying flat on the cold ground, staring up at nothing. Alarmed, he tried to sit up, but failed miserably, as sudden pain throbbed through his head. He heard someone groan, and belatedly realized that the sound had come from himself. _What happened?_ he wondered.

_And where is Jim?_

With a gasp, he tried to sit up again. His head swam sickeningly, and he closed his eyes, but managed to remain upright. It took him a minute to realize how.

Someone was holding him up.

"Artie!" he finally heard. "Artie, look at me."

Opening his eyes, Artie was relieved to see James West crouching before him, holding him up by the lapels of his jacket. "Hey, Jim," he said, weakly.

"Are you all right?" Jim asked. He quickly looked him over for wounds, not seeing anything in the dark besides a bruise on the left side of his friend's forehead.

"I've been better," Artie admitted, closing his eyes against another wave of dizziness.

"Did you get the code?" Jim asked.

"The what?"

Jim frowned. "Let's get you inside," he said, carefully pulling him to his feet.

Once standing, Artie didn't know up from down. "Ohhh…not one of your best ideas, Jim…" His knees buckled, and he felt Jim drag him over to the steps leading into the train. A minute later, he felt Jim gently lay him on the couch.

Artie groaned, one hand covering his eyes.

Jim went to fetch a towel and a bowl of water, quickly bringing them back and pulling a chair over to the couch. "Who did this to you? I looked for you all over Lewisburg for hours. How did you manage to make it back in this condition?"

"I don't know," Artie answered. He drew in a sharp breath when the wet towel was suddenly pressed to his head.

"Sorry," Jim said. Now that there was light, he could see the extent of his friend's injury: a bleeding cut on the left side of his forehead, in the middle of a large, purple lump. He knew what that meant. "You were pistol-whipped."

"I figured," Artie mumbled. "_Oh_, does it hurt."

"I'm sure." Jim rewet the towel and folded it longways, before laying it over Artie's forehead. "Just keep still."

"Believe me, I have no intention of moving."

"Good," Jim said. He reached over and unlaced the ribbon-tie under his friend's collar, before undoing the top button of Artie's shirt, in an attempt to make him comfortable. He was itching to know exactly what had happened to the other agent, but the way that Artie was breathing showed that he was in a lot of pain. "Artie, how many fingers do you see?" he asked, holding up two.

It took a few seconds for Artie to peek out from under his hand. "Are you really gonna make me count?" he asked.

Jim dropped a finger, to make it easier. "Yes."

Artie sighed, keeping his eyes hooded with his hand. He appeared to concentrate for a minute. "One."

Jim rolled his eyes. "I didn't tell you to _figure out_ how many, I asked how many you could _see_."

Artie covered his eyes again. "Three…and a half."

Jim dropped his hand. "Thought so. It's safe to say that you have a concussion."

Artie sighed. "I didn't think that was ever in doubt."

Jim made a rueful face, not that his friend could see it with his hand still over his eyes. "What's the last thing you remember, Artie?"

The other agent was quiet for a minute. "I remember we left the train together…went to town…we're in Kentucky?"

Jim nodded.

"At least I remember _that_...but then there's nothing until I woke up with horses kicking the inside of my head."

"The horses," Jim suddenly realized. "They're still outside. Think about it if you can, Artie. I'll be right back."

"Sure…"

What seemed like only a second passed, before Jim spoke again. "I'm back…you awake?"

Artie was startled. "I'mawake," he slurred.

Jim sat in the chair beside the couch. "Did you remember anything else?"

Artie sighed. "No. If I do, you'll be the first to know."

Jim echoed the sigh. "It's late…do you want me to help you to your room, or would you rather stay on the couch?"

"I think it'd be wiser to stay put, Jim."

Jim was surprised to get that answer. Artie's headache must truly be spectacular to make him choose the couch over his bed. He stood and fetched a blanket, before pulling his friend's boots off and covering him with it. He then lowered the lights and sat back in his chair, kicking off his own boots as he settled in.

Artie knew that he'd never be able to stop his friend from watching over him all night. "Thanks, Jim," he said, in appreciation.

"Anytime, pal," Jim replied. "Though you won't be thanking me in a couple of hours when I wake you up, to ensure that you haven't slipped into a coma."

At those words, Artie threw an arm over his eyes with with a groan.

TBC


	2. No Choice

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The night was not kind to Artemus. Jim did indeed wake him up every two hours, adding exhaustion to his pain and misery.

"Why can't you just let me sleeeeeeeep…" he moaned, at one point.

"I wish I could, Artie," Jim replied, sympathetically. "But you know the danger of sleeping with a concussion."

Artie did know, had been the one to teach Jim, in fact, but the concussion was causing him the common effect of confusion. He groaned, covering his eyes with both hands as his head pounded in time with his heartbeat. He dimly felt his friend squeeze his shoulder in support.

The next thing he knew, he heard a noise nearby, and realized that time had passed. It was disorienting, and he tried to open eyes that felt glued shut, but he hadn't the energy. His brain felt like it was too big to fit in his skull, and he must've made some sound, for steps suddenly headed towards him.

"Artie?" said Jim. "Are you awake?"

"Unfortunately," he mumbled.

"How do you feel?"

"As bad as I sound." Still unable to open his eyes, he heard his friend sit in the chair beside the couch. Not only did his head hurt terribly, but it felt like it was full of cotton from not getting enough sleep.

"Artie? Artie?"

"Huh?"

Jim frowned. "I was talking to you but you didn't answer. Will you open your eyes, already? You're starting to worry me."

"Starting?" With great effort, Artie somehow managed, looking up at Jim before closing them again. "Happy now?"

Jim smiled slightly. At least his friend still had his sense of humor. "I'm thinking of fetching a doctor, but I don't want to leave you alone."

"I don't need one, Jim…there's nothing much a doctor can do for a concussion anyway…" Suddenly, he stopped, and his eyes opened.

Jim frowned, watching as his friend stared at nothing. "Artie?" When his friend didn't move, he grasped his arm. "Artie?"

Suddenly, his friend looked at him. "Jim…I remember what happened to me last night!" He tried to sit up, but failed miserably and fell back with a gasp.

"Whoa," Jim said, grabbing Artie by the arms and holding him down. "That's great, but it doesn't change the fact that you need to stay put."

Artie put a hand on his head, eyes squeezed tight as the fast movement increased the throbbing. "Oooooh…I'm getting…as impulsive…as _you_…"

Jim grabbed the towel still sitting beside the bowl and wet it again before placing it over Artie's forehead.

Artie put his hand on top of it, with a sigh. "In my lab there's a bottle of white powder on the shelf. It says 'Painkiller' on it…"

"Coming up," Jim said, standing and hastily bringing it back. "How much?"

"A spoonful. A _big_ spoonful."

"Is it safe to take something yet?" Jim asked. That was yet another thing Artie had taught him. It was never good to mask the symptoms of a concussion before its severity could be discerned.

"How long has it been?"

Jim looked at the clock. "Ten hours since I found you outside."

"Considering that I'm conscious and still have all of my marbles, I think it's safe."

Jim stirred the powder into a glass of water before kneeling beside the couch, ready to slide an arm under his friend to sit him up. "What about your stomach?"

"Miraculously, it's fine."

"It might not _stay_ fine. Sip it at first."

"Yes, Dr. West," Artie quipped, closing his eyes again as Jim pulled him upright the barest minimum. The throbbing increased, as he knew it would, and he tried not to hold his breath, knowing that it would only make the pain worse.

The glass suddenly touched his lips, and he sipped the medicated water, swallowing nervously, really, _really_ not wanting to add a rebelling stomach to his misery. He thanked God fervently when nothing happened.

"Good?" Jim asked, waiting to give him more.

Artie waited another few seconds just to make sure. "Yes." He drank the rest, and sighed gratefully.

Jim looked up at the ceiling. "Thank you, Lord, for giving Artie an iron stomach."

"That He did," Artie said; as Jim laid him back down. "Plus, different parts of the brain control different functions of the body. If I'd been hit on the side of my head, for instance, I don't think I would've been so lucky."

Jim smiled. "Now you _really_ sound like yourself again."

Artie smiled back, despite the pain.

"Can you tell me what happened last night, or do you want to wait until the powder starts to work?"

"It's starting to work already…on an empty stomach, it gets into the bloodstream quicker. Jim…I _did_ get the code, but I was attacked and it was taken from me."

Jim sighed. "Great."

Artie echoed the sigh. "A few minutes after we split up, someone whistled to get my attention. I followed him into a shop, and the man handed me a newspaper."

Jim's eyebrows rose. "A newspaper?"

"He pointed to the article that contained the code. It was there, Jim, I read it."

"What did it say?"

Artie sighed again. "I don't remember."

Jim ran a hand over his face.

"Sorry."

Jim shook his head. "It's not your fault…someone nearly knocked your head off. What we need to figure out now, is what to do about this."

"Simple. We find whoever our informant was and ask him what it said."

Jim looked at his friend, and his face split into a wide grin. "You never cease to amaze me, Artie. Can you tell me where in town the shop was?"

Artemus frowned. "It was dark, and my head was nearly knocked off a few minutes later. I have no idea."

"Well, you can't come with me in your condition."

"I know that. But you're right that I shouldn't be left alone, and I really can't tell you off the top of my aching head where the shop was."

Jim shook his head. "How are you supposed to ride back to town? How _is_ your head?"

"The powder helped." It was the truth. The incessant pounding was lessening, leaving him with mostly just the steady pain.

Jim could see that it was true: his friend seemed not as weak. "You'll likely regret this."

"I know, but President Grant is trusting us. Help me up."

Jim sighed. He knelt and slid an arm under his friend, pulling him up slowly.

Artie forced himself not to react openly, wanting to seem as fine as possible. The pounding came back, but it lessened after he sat still for a minute.

Jim watched him. "You sure about this?"

"I have no choice. Where are my boots?"

Jim fetched them and helped his friend put them on.

"Can you get me a mirror?" Artie asked him, using his hands to smooth down his hair.

It suddenly occurred to Jim that his friend didn't even know what his injury looked like. He went over to the wall and took it down, bringing it over and holding it in front of him.

Artie's jaw dropped when he saw himself. Nearly the whole left side of his forehead was purple, with a nasty cut in the middle. He reached up to gingerly touch it, wincing at the feel of the swollen bump.

"Now you understand my reluctance," said Jim. "If the roles were reversed, would you let _me_ go back to town?"

"By no means," Artie replied, his voice sounding shocked as he continued to stare in the mirror. "However…"

"I know; you have no choice. Stay there, I'll get the wagon ready. It'll be easier on you than horseback."

With that, Jim headed to the back of the train.

Artemus closed his eyes and dozed, not looking forward to the journey. A hand eventually touched his arm, and he reopened them.

Jim was wearing a heavy coat, and holding Artie's. "Bad news. It snowed."

Artie sighed. "Wonderful."

Jim helped his friend get the coat on, before shoving gloves on his hands and wrapping a scarf around his neck.

Even though all the motion hurt Artie's head, he couldn't help but smile at the mother-henning.

Jim eventually held up some bandages and sat beside him. "Should do this before we go."

Artie realized that he should have suggested that himself. He still was not totally thinking clearly, and was grateful to his friend. "Oh. Thanks, Jim."

West smiled and carefully wrapped the bandage around Artie's head, before grabbing his friend's hat and gently sitting it on top, tipping it back a little to avoid touching the injury. "Okay?"

"Okay."

With that, Jim wrapped an arm around his friend's back and slowly stood.

Stars erupted in Artie's vision and everything went gray. Sheer willpower was the only thing that kept him conscious.

Jim wrapped his other arm around his friend, holding him up before he could fall. He remained standing, knowing that sitting Artie down would only make it harder to get him back up again. What seemed like an eternity later, the lightheadedness lessened, and Artie tried to raise his head, unaware that it had dropped sideways onto Jim's shoulder.

"Well," said Jim. "That wasn't good."

Artie knew that his friend was trying to be lighthearted. "You can say _that_ again."

Jim helped him towards the door, opening it and carefully ushering him out. It was very cold outside, and snow glistened on the ground as far as the eye could see.

Blinking at the brightness, Artie suddenly realized that his vision wasn't doubled anymore and tried to figure out how much snow had fallen. It only appeared to be three or four inches, and he was relieved. If it had been more than that, the wagon would've had a hard time getting through the snow, if it managed at all.

Then again, maybe it was a shame that there wasn't a foot of snow. He felt horrible, and wished that he'd never gotten off the couch.

"Hold on to the rail," Jim told him.

Artie obeyed, and they slowly walked down the steps, Jim keeping an iron grip on him lest he slip. They made it down without incident, and Jim tried to get him into the back of the wagon, but Artie protested.

"I'll sit up front with you."

"But it'll be warmer inside," said Jim.

"It'll also be bumpier."

Jim couldn't argue that, and helped him up into the seat, before going into the back and grabbing a blanket, which he threw over his friend. After making sure that Artie was settled in, Jim flicked the reins on the horses, and they rode off towards town.

TBC


	3. Man of Many Talents

The ride was quiet. Artemus burrowed under the blanket, miserably wishing that the wagon would stop. The headache powder had worked to some degree, but the motion of the wagon on the uneven terrain was fighting to win.

"Doing okay, Artie?" he suddenly heard.

"Considering. How much longer?" he asked, not wanting to open his eyes.

"Almost there."

_Thank God, _he thought.

A few minutes later, the wagon came to a stop. With a sigh of relief, Artie opened his eyes and sat up straighter, finding that they were at the point where they'd split up the night before.

"Where did you go from here?" Jim asked.

Artemus pointed to the right, and Jim spurred the horses slowly on.

"I think I went right again," Artie said. "And then left somewhere…"

Jim followed his instructions. "How far did you go before you went left?"

Artie had a hand to his mouth as he thought. "Uh…oh, the man found me right there, I think, and we walked straight for a minute and then turned left."

"Left here?"

"I think so."

Jim turned, passing a group of children playing in the snow. "All right, which shop was it?"

Artie was frowning. "None of these look familiar. It must be the next left."

Jim set about turning the wagon around, which gave the children no choice but to move.

One little girl stayed where she was. "Are you lookin' for the printer again?" she called.

Jim and Artie looked down at her. "Printer?" Jim asked.

She nodded, and said to Artie, "Mr. Kaye. He's on the next street. Did you forget?"

Artemus suddenly tried to get down from the wagon, but Jim grabbed his arm, stopping him. "You saw me last night?" Artie asked.

She nodded. "I saw you and the printer walk into his shop, and you came out a minute later, but three men hit you and stole something that you had."

"What an observant young lady," Artie said, turning on the charm. "What's your name?"

"Annabelle."

"Annabelle, what a lovely name! Do you happen to know who those men were?"

She shook her head.

"A pity. Thank you very much for your help, dear lady! Your information was invaluable!"

She smiled at them and giggled, before skipping away to rejoin her friends.

Jim spurred the horses on, and turned left onto the next street.

"There it is," Artie said. "Third on the right."

Jim stopped the horses and got down from the wagon, holding out his hands to stop Artie when he started to move. "Stay there, there's no reason for us both to go in."

"You think he's just gonna give the info to anyone who waltzes in claiming to be an agent who lost the info he gave them?" Artie asked.

"_You _lost the info, not me."

Artie rolled his eyes, wincing when the motion hurt his head. "We're partners; when one of us loses info, we both lose it." He tried to get down again, so Jim reached up to help him.

Stepping down to the ground sent an intense stab of pain through Artie's head and he inhaled sharply, reaching a hand to his head subconsciously.

Jim kept the hold on his arm, walking slowly to the door. He opened it and they went inside, but found no one. "Mr. Kaye?" he called.

They received no answer, and started to look around.

Artie managed to get his arm free from Jim's grip, and walked around himself, albeit unsteadily. Finding the counter nearby, he leaned on it nonchalantly as he looked around, before spotting something unexpected. "Jim," he called.

Turning, Jim saw where he was and sprinted over, looking behind the counter where Artemus was pointing.

Mr. Kaye was dead.

"So much for him telling us the code," said Artie.

Jim sighed. "We'll have to tell the sheriff. I'm gonna look around a little more before we go."

"I'll look too."

"No, I think you should sit down. You're very pale."

Artie _felt_ very pale. "I'm all right, Jim," he said, even though he obviously wasn't.

But his friend had already headed towards the nearest chair and brought it over, pushing him down into it. "Stay," he said, as if commanding a dog.

Artie fought the urge to say 'woof'.

Jim clapped him on the shoulder before continuing his search.

Artie sighed, but obeyed. The headache powder hadn't helped as much as he hoped, and he knew that it was because he was exerting himself too much. He looked around from where he sat, at least, and was startled when he saw Annabelle standing in the doorway.

"Did you find it?" she asked.

Artie was immensely relieved that the dead body was hidden by the counter. "No, my dear."

"Why was a newspaper so important?" she asked.

So Annabelle had seen what the men had taken from him. "There was an article in it that I needed," Artie replied.

"Can't you just make another one on his printing press?"

Artie blinked at her, in shock. _That's right, she said that he was a printer! He made the newspaper himself!_

Jim heard, and rushed over. "That's exactly what we'll do, Annabelle. Would you mind going to the sheriff's office and telling him to come over here for us?"

"Sure," she said, and skipped out.

Jim looked at Artie. "Artemus Gordon, man of many talents: do you know how to operate a printing press?"

Artie smiled. "But of course, James my boy."

TBC


	4. A Keen Eye

Jim found the printing press in another room, and they eagerly approached it. Artie took hold of the top and pulled it open before Jim could help.

"Look, Jim," Artemus said. "The type is set. Get me some paper."

Jim obeyed, and when he returned, Artie was holding something covered in ink. He handed it to his friend. "Pat this over the type."

Jim took it and covered each letter with the ink. "Does the paper go on top?"

"No, it goes on the inside of the cover."

Jim took the paper and placed it where it belonged. "Close the cover now?"

"Right. After that, you slide the whole thing in and twist that handle on top to apply pressure."

Jim did as he was instructed, before pulling it back out and opening the press.

"Congratulations, Jim, you just made your first newspaper."

Jim flashed Artie a grin, before peeling the paper off the type, being careful not to get ink on himself. He turned it over and held it closer to Artie so they could both read it. "Where was the article?"

"On the bottom right."

They both found it, and read aloud in unison: "A pancake-eating contest is scheduled for this Saturday at 10am in the center of town…"

They both stopped and looked at each other, before Artemus closed his eyes and leaned against the press. "This isn't the paper. He must've made others after the one that contained the code." Dejected, he put a hand to his aching head.

"Hello?" they suddenly heard.

"The sheriff," Jim said.

They went back into the other room, where Jim forced Artie to sit down again as they explained to the sheriff who they were and what had happened.

"Do you have any idea who could've done this?" Jim asked.

The sheriff shook his head. "I was about to ask _you_ that." He looked at Artie. "You didn't get a good look at them?"

Artie sighed. "I didn't get _any_ kind of look, it was too dark. I walked out the door and didn't even make it to the corner before three or four men jumped out from behind one of the other shops and grabbed me. One of them hit me with his gun, and that was that." He raised a hand and pushed his hat up higher, sick of the added pressure that it was causing his injury, before giving up and taking it off.

The sheriff sighed. "Another unsolved murder."

Jim sighed. "If we find out any information, we'll pass it along."

"Thanks."

Jim nodded and helped Artemus up from the chair, who he could see had lost whatever steam he'd been running on. "How's your head?"

Artemus sighed, exhausted. "Attempting to fall off."

"We'll go back to the train," Jim told him. "There's nothing more we can do here."

Artie was surprised to hear the other agent giving up. "But Jim—"

"We still don't know what the code said," Jim replied. "I don't want to give up, Artie, but we have no leads, and your injury is serious. We'll go back to the train so you can rest, and we'll see what we can figure out."

Artemus said nothing more, knowing that Jim was right. What were they supposed to do, just stand in the middle of town and wait for inspiration?

They reached the wagon and Artie tossed his hat onto the seat and started to climb up, but a sudden wave of vertigo tilted everything sideways and he missed the step.

Jim had a hold on Artie's arm already, and grabbed him when he faltered. He saw that his friend's eyes were closed, and he easily figured out why. "Hang on, Artie, I've got you."

Artemus placed a hand to the side of his head, as if making sure that it stayed on his neck. His breathing was too fast and he had paled even more.

Jim sat him on the wagon's step, not wanting his friend to pass out. Artie leaned his head against the side of the wagon, eyes still closed.

"Is he okay, mister?"

Jim turned, to see Annabelle standing nearby. "Not at the moment."

"What're your names?"

Jim was slightly annoyed to be distracted by the child, with his friend half-conscious and in pain, but then he had an idea. "I'm Jim, and he's Artie."

"Artie? That short for 'Arthur'? That's my uncle's name."

"No, Annabelle, it's short for 'Artemus'."

She smiled. "I like that name." She walked a little closer to Artie. "He's handsome."

Jim grinned, not expecting that. He wondered if Artie had heard her.

Artie's eyes suddenly opened slightly, and he smiled. "Why, thank you, my dear."

She giggled shyly.

"You have…a keen eye…" Artie continued, trying to straighten up a little. He let out a breath and closed his eyes again. "Those men, last night…"

So Artie had thought of the same idea that Jim had. "How many were there, Annabelle?" he asked, taking over from Artie. "Did you see any of their faces?"

"Four. I saw one of 'em."

"What did he look like?"

She shrugged. "I dunno."

Jim sighed. "Was there anything strange about him? A scar, beard, eyepatch…anything?"

"No. He was handsome, but not as handsome as Artie."

Jim smiled again. He thought he heard Artie give a snort, but when he looked at him, his eyes were still closed. "Well…if you remember anything else, be sure to tell the sheriff, all right?"

She nodded. Taking another step closer to Artemus, she patted his arm. "Bye, Artie. Hope you feel better."

Artie opened his eyes again and smiled. "Thank you, my dear. Goodbye."

She giggled again and skipped off.

Jim watched her go before shooting a grin at Artie. "Looks like you're her first crush."

Artie held out his arm for Jim to help him up. "What can I say? Women everywhere swoon at the sight of Artemus Gordon."

Jim laughed, before taking his friend's arm. "Are you sure you can stand? You're almost as white as the snow."

Artie sighed. "No…but I don't want to sit here in the cold all day."

Jim nodded and took his arm; wrapping his other arm around his friend's back and making sure Artie had some balance as he climbed the steps onto the wagon. Jim climbed up beside him and flicked the reins.

Artie sighed and closed his eyes again, eager to get back to the train. He knew that he'd done too much, and hoped that he wouldn't need too long of a recovery.

Jim only got a few miles out of town before he suddenly heard galloping horses behind them. He turned, to see four men with rifles. He knew that they were too close to be able to outrun them, and sighed.

"Artie, we have company."

Artemus remained slumped where he was. "This is _not_ my day..."

TBC


	5. Code? What Code?

The four riders came to a stop beside Jim and Artie's wagon, and dismounted from their horses. One man stuck his rifle back into his saddlebag and stepped forward. "Agents West and Gordon. Throw down your guns and get down from there."

Jim looked at his friend, upset at the new developments. He knew that Artie was in no condition to fight his way out of this, but he was _also_ in no condition to become a prisoner.

The sound of guns being cocked got their attention.

"_Now_," the leader said.

Jim tossed down his gun and looked at Artie one more time, giving him the, 'I'm gonna try something' look before he started to climb down.

"Try anything, and your friend dies," the leader told him.

So much for that. Jim climbed down and watched as Artie slid over to the side before he reached up to grab Artie's arm.

Impatient, the leader of the outlaws stepped over, roughly grabbed Artie's other arm, and gave a quick yank.

Jim's grip was the only thing that kept Artie from falling flat on his face. He landed on his knees in the snow with a cry of pain from the vicious jolt to his head.

Jim was so angry, that he practically saw red. "Are you insane?!" he growled.

The man shrugged. "It was taking too long. Still is. Knock them out and throw them in the wagon," he told his men.

"Wait!" Jim exclaimed. "One of you already gave him a concussion. You do that and you'll kill him."

The man looked at Artie, whose head was lowered as he gasped from the pain. He stepped over, pulling his revolver from its holster, and crouched beside them, using his gun to force Artie's head up. "Maybe I should just kill him now and get it over with. Who says we need both of you, anyway?"

Glaring daggers at the man, Jim replied, "How do you know that you won't need _him_ more than you need _me_?"

At those words, Jim felt Artie close a hand around his forearm. Artemus never did like when Jim risked his own life for his.

The man stared at Jim for a few seconds, before pulling the gun away from Artemus and standing.

Artie lowered his head again with a shuddering breath, reaching a shaking hand to his pounding head.

"Get them into the wagon," the leader said.

Jim pulled Artie's left arm around his neck before carefully standing. He only made it halfway up before his friend suddenly went completely limp. Before any of the men could interfere, Jim quickly swung Artemus up into his arms and carried him over to the back of the wagon, carefully getting him inside.

Two of the men crawled in too, settling near the back with their guns ready.

Jim sat against the side of the wagon with an arm around his friend to keep him upright, leaning Artie's head against his shoulder to cushion it. He had no idea how long this journey would be, and part of him was glad that Artemus would be unconscious for at least part of it.

The drive lasted an hour before the wagon came to a stop. Everyone climbed out and headed into a cave, which turned out to be an abandoned mine.

Artemus was still unconscious, so Jim carried him inside. As he walked, he made note in his mind of everything he saw, already mentally calculating their escape.

"Into the cell," he heard, and knew that they were _really_ in trouble. If Artie hadn't been injured, they'd attempt their escape now, before being locked up. Once they were behind those bars, their chances of getting away alive would be drastically reduced.

Jim turned and looked behind himself before going into the cell. As one, the three men cocked their rifles, while their leader pointed his handgun, with a smirk.

With a sigh, Jim stepped inside, and much of his hope dimmed when the cell clicked shut. Escape would be hard for him on his own…escaping with Artie unconscious and seriously injured would be impossible.

"Since your earlier remark makes it obvious that you know who we are," the leader said. "I'm sure you can figure out what we need you for."

Jim knelt and carefully laid Artemus on the floor, shrugging out of his coat, folding it, and placing it under his friend's head. "Didn't you already get what you wanted, Mr…?" he asked, sarcastically.

"Harris. Oh, I got it all right," the man answered. He took a folded newspaper out of his jacket and held it up. "Trouble is, I can't read it."

"Oh. Illiterate?" Jim quipped.

Harris frowned. "Only for this _code_," he snarled. He tossed the newspaper through the bars. "Tell me what it says."

Jim reached over and picked it up, reading the article on the bottom right. "This is the code?" he said. "I have no idea what it means."

"You're lying."

Jim shook his head. "No, this is a code that I've never encountered."

Harris cocked his pistol and walked closer, aiming the gun through the bars at the still unconscious Artie. "Tell me what it says, or I'll kill your friend right now."

"Look," said Jim. "I want to get out of this cell just as much as you want to know what this code says. My partner is seriously injured. Do you really think I want to waste time playing games? I _don't know_ this code."

Harris looked at Artie. "Does _he_ know it?"

Jim was sure that he did. When he asked Artie earlier what the message said, Artie told him that he didn't remember, not that he didn't _know_… "Probably. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that he _invented_ it."

Harris reached through the bars and angrily snatched the newspaper back.

"Mr. Harris!" they suddenly heard.

Jim watched as one of Harris' henchmen darted over and whispered something to him. Harris gave Jim one more look before walking off with the man.

Jim sighed, glad to be rid of them, for however long it lasted. He sighed and looked down at his friend, just in time to see his face twitch. "Artie?" he said, taking hold of his arm.

Artie winced, raising a hand towards his head, but Jim grabbed it and pushed it back down where it had been, making Artie open his eyes. "Wha—"

"Shhh," Jim said. "We're prisoners. Don't let them know you're awake."

But one of the men had walked in, and saw Artemus move. "Mr. Harris!" he called. "Gordon's awake."

"Bring them out here."

The man went over to the cell and unlocked it, pointing a rifle at them.

Jim helped Artie get up, pulling one of his arms over his shoulders and helping him slowly walk out of the cell.

Artie tried not to gasp from the pain and dizziness. He'd been hit on the head by more enemies than he cared to remember, but this was definitely the worst concussion he'd ever had.

"Mr. Gordon," Harris said, walking over to them and holding out the newspaper. "I'm told that you can understand this."

Artie frowned at him. "Understand what? The newspaper?"

Harris frowned back. "Of course not the _newspaper_…this code, right here!" He held it under Artie's nose, pointing.

Instead of looking at it, Artie glanced around the room. "Code? Whaddya mean?" His words were slurred and he looked dazed. "You mean morse code? I don't hear any morse code. Jim, do you hear any morse code?"

Jim stared at Artemus, horrified at this unexpected decline in his health. If his friend's injury was now affecting his mind, did it mean that it had become severe enough to kill him?

"Jim, who are these people? What are we doing here?" Artie asked, slumping against him even more.

Anger surged through Jim. _We shouldn't __be__ here…Artie should be recovering on the train! _"Are you satisfied?" he said to Harris, teeth clenched. "His condition is _your_ fault, and now it looks like he's incapable of giving you the information that you want!"

Harris said nothing, staring angrily. "Put them back into their cell," he told his men. "You have one hour to get him to figure out what that code says," he told Jim, holding out the paper. "If you fail, he dies."

"If he dies, you'll never know what it says," said Jim, taking it.

"That is why I'm giving you this opportunity before I kill him." Harris motioned to his men, who led Jim and Artie at gunpoint back to their cell.

TBC  
Thanks for the reviews, keep them coming, they make me happy! ;) I almost didn't get to post this thanks to the blizzard...200,000 people in my state lost power after getting 20 inches of snow...my lights flickered a million times, but my power stayed on! The town STILL hasn't plowed my street though! o.O


	6. The Code is Revealed

Jim slowly walked Artie back the way they came, having to support more and more of his weight before he finally had to pick him up and carry him the rest of the way. Once inside, he gently laid him on the floor again with the coat under his head.

As one of the men closed the cell door, Jim called out to him. "Can you at least bring us some water? It might revive him and make his mind clearer."

The man left, leaving one other who stood close to the cell, watching them.

Jim bent over his friend, gently patting his cheek. "Artie? Artie, wake up. Come on, pal, don't do this to me."

Artemus made no movement.

Jim rubbed a hand across his face, holding it over his eyes as he sighed. They'd both suffered many injuries over the years, usually minor ones. He suddenly realized that this time, Artie might not recover, and he felt a flash of fear and grief.

"Here," he suddenly heard.

Turning, he saw that the man had returned with a canteen, and he threw it through the bars towards him. Jim caught it and took out his handkerchief, pouring water onto it before patting it over his friend's face. "Artie, Artie please wake up…"

At that, Artemus moved. One hand came up and gripped Jim's wrist, and his eyes opened. He seemed to be looking past him, and Jim turned to see what, if anything, he was looking at. He saw that the two men had walked over to a table at the far wall, and were playing cards.

The grip on his wrist tightened. "Jim," Artie whispered. "Some of it was an act. I'm sorry."

Jim's jaw dropped. "An act? You mean you haven't lost your marbles?"

Artie gave a mirth-less smile. "No, I was stalling."

Such relief flooded Jim that he almost felt dizzy.

"Sorry," Artie said again, knowing that he'd badly scared his friend.

Jim shook his head. "Forget it. Here, have some water." He slid an arm under Artemus and pulled him up slightly, holding the canteen to his lips.

Artie drank slowly, turning his head when he was finished.

Jim lowered him back down, before turning to see that the two men were fully occupied with their card game. "Well, you've gained us an hour."

"Plenty of time for you to think up a plan," Artie said, closing his eyes again.

Jim took the newspaper out of his jacket. "Artie, you can read this code, right?"

"Of course," Artie said. "I invented it."

"I never doubted you for a second," said Jim, holding it over his friend's face. "Here it is. What does it mean?"

Artie looked at it, blinking a few times as if trying to get his eyes to focus. He appeared to concentrate, apparently having a hard time thinking with his injury, but when he realized what it said, his face registered shock, and he tried to sit up.

"Hey, hold it, hold it," Jim whispered, holding Artie down with a hand on his chest. He looked behind them, to see that the card-playing men hadn't noticed.

"Jim, we gotta get out of here!" Artie whispered back. "That message says that a spy in the White House plans to assassinate the President on March 1, when he meets with Congress to sign the new Civil Rights Act!"

_That's only a few days from now, _Jim realized. "Okay, Artie, this ends _now_. Hey!" he yelled to the two men. "Help! My friend needs help!"

Without missing a beat, Artie went along with him. He closed his eyes and started gasping and moaning.

The two men, knowing that they needed Artie to decipher the code, dashed over and opened the cell, quickly coming in.

In an instant, Jim jumped up and attacked, knocking them both out easily. He grabbed both of their guns, before dashing towards the entrance and looking into the other 'room'. Neither Harris nor his other henchman was in sight, so he ran back over to the cell and knelt beside Artie, carefully sitting him up. "How mobile are you?" he asked.

Artie sighed. "As mobile as I need to be to get out of here."

Jim helped him stand, not giving his friend much time to steady himself as he pulled him along as fast as Artie could go.

They made it through the other room and reached the entrance to the mine, but just after they stepped outside, a bullet whizzed by them.

Jim immediately pushed Artie down in the brush, wincing himself at his friend's exclamation of pain. He kept his left hand on Artie's chest to kept him flat and unseen, as he peered through the leaves, pointing his gun.

Another bullet whizzed over their heads. "You can't get away, West!" Harris shouted.

"If you shoot us, who will decipher the message?" Jim called back.

"If you both come out, I will not harm either of you," Harris called. Suddenly, he appeared about ten feet away.

Jim realized that Harris didn't know that he was now armed.

"I said, come out of there!" Harris exclaimed. He fired again, the bullet kicking up dirt close enough to Artie's face to make him jump.

As if Jim knew ahead of time how close the bullet was going to come to his friend, he fired a split second after their enemy, hitting Harris in the chest and sending him sprawling.

Jim got up and went over to him, picking his gun up off the ground. Seeing where his bullet had hit the man, he knew that he was dying. He turned and walked back to Artemus, carefully helping him up and assisting him into the wagon.

"This…isn't…over, West!" Harris shouted, ridiculously, from where he lay.

"It's more over than you think," Jim replied as he drove off, keeping a wary eye out for the missing henchman.

Artie slumped quietly in his seat, eyes closed. "Wasn't there a fourth man?"

Jim nodded. "Harris must've sent him on an errand. He sure isn't going to expect what he finds when he comes back."

"I'm sure," said Artie.

Jim tried to hurry without hurrying, for his friend's sake. Artie looked terrible…pain was easily discernable on his face, and he was practically gray with exhaustion. He needed some serious rest, and Jim hoped that he would be able to get it despite the wild ride they would need to take to get to Washington.

"You realize that we can't send Grant a message telling him of this plot," Artie suddenly said, as if reading Jim's mind.

"I know," Jim replied. "We have no way of knowing just who will receive the message…it could be the spy himself."

"Right." Artie sighed. "We'll get there in time, Jim."

Jim knew that to be true. The trip would probably take around thirty hours, and March 1st was in three days.

Neither of them paid attention to the increasingly-overcast sky…

TBC

The Civil Rights Act was passed by Congress in February of 1875, and signed into law by President Grant on March 1, 1875. It's main aim was to protect African Americans who were discriminated against in hotels and public places.


	7. Weather Delay

Despite his awful headache and motion of the wagon, Artie managed to drift off into that half-asleep-but-still-aware stage. He heard Jim say something to him, probably asking if he was all right, but he merely replied with 'umm'. It seemed like no time passed at all before his friend was trying to nudge him awake. He tried to cooperate, but it was as if his body had finally had enough, and was refusing to relinquish control to him.

Jim could see that Artie had reached the end of his endurance, and even though it wasn't easy, he managed to safely get him down from the wagon and inside the train, where he laid him on the couch before heading towards the front to tell the conductor to high-tail it to Washington.

Upon returning, he found that Artie hadn't moved. "I know you're exhausted, pal," said Jim. "But would you mind showing some sign of life?"

"Need sleep," Artie answered. He winced when the train's whistle suddenly blew as the engine came to life. "I didn't need that," he said, raising an arm that weighed a ton to place a hand on his head.

"Go to sleep, Artie. I'll tell them to drive this train as quietly as possible," Jim told him, pulling off his friend's boots again and covering him with the blanket.

"I'll hold you to that," Artie mumbled. "And Jim…?"

"Yes?"

"_Please_ don't wake me up this time."

Jim didn't answer, unsure about that. Artie had endured a lot since obtaining his injury, and Jim didn't know if further damage had been done. With a sigh, he watched as his friend drifted off to sleep...

While outside, it began to snow.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Time passed slowly. Jim constantly looked at the clock, alternately pacing, playing solitaire, and keeping an eye on Artie, who never moved a muscle. His friend's lack of movement was worrisome, making Jim wonder if he was unconscious rather than sleeping. He knew that Artie hadn't gotten much rest the night before, thanks to the frequent wakings, so he hoped that he was merely deeply asleep. He wasn't sure what he was going to do at the two-hour mark.

The clock suddenly struck 1pm, and Jim realized that the two hours were up. He crossed to the couch and sat in the chair that he'd put beside it, staring at his friend and wondering if he should wake him.

Artie's breathing was steady and quiet, and Jim wished that he would snore or make some kind of sound that would confirm that he was, indeed, merely sleeping.

"Artie?" he whispered, wondering if he could get some type of response without waking him fully.

Artemus didn't move.

Jim sighed and stood up. In his frustrated haste, he accidentally kicked the leg of the chair and nearly tripped over it, making a loud clatter. He looked at Artie, hoping that he hadn't startled him, just in time to see his friend's eyes blink open.

Artie glanced up at Jim for a second, before his eyes closed and he dropped right off again.

Jim just stared. _Well. That worked, _he thought.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Three hours later found Jim sleeping in the chair beside the couch. He never needed as much sleep as the average man, but hadn't gotten much rest the night before, either, while watching over his injured friend. While wondering if he should 'accidentally' make a noise again once the second two-hour mark came around, he'd fallen asleep himself.

Suddenly, Jim startled awake, urgently sitting up in his chair. He could've sworn that he'd heard someone call his name, and looked at Artie, who was still asleep. He quickly looked at the clock to see how much time had passed, and when he saw that it'd been three hours, he looked back to his friend and reached over to wake him, before he stopped and decided to watch him for a minute, in case the waking wasn't necessary. He reached up to rub his eyes.

"Jim?"

Jim opened his eyes again and looked at Artemus, who suddenly moved.

"Don't go without me, Jim. It's too dangerous," Artie said, eyes still closed.

Jim realized that his friend was dreaming, which was a great sign...it meant that he was safely asleep, not unconscious. He wondered if answering Artie would settle him down, but just as he opened his mouth, Artie spoke again.

"Grant's safety is more important than my headache."

Jim realized that Artie was dreaming about the inevitable conversation that they would be having once they arrived in Washington. Artie was right, though...they didn't know who the spy was, so if Artie was mobile, Jim needed him. "I know, Artie," Jim said, hopefully before his dream-self had a chance to answer. "I won't stop you."

Artie said no more, quieting down.

Jim stood; relieved to know that Artie's concussion didn't seem to have worsened, so he probably wouldn't have to wake him anymore. Stretching, he walked over to the window and looked out...only to nearly gasp in shock at the sight of heavily-falling snow.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Artie suddenly realized that he was cold. Opening his eyes, he blinked blearily, finding it darkened inside the train, with the lamps turned down low. Feeling groggy, he shivered and closed his eyes again, realizing with relief that his headache wasn't pounding _quite_ as relentlessly as it had been.

The next thing he realized was that the train was not moving.

Reopening his eyes, he half sat up before he had a chance to think. "Jim?" he called.

The couch he was laying on suddenly moved as if it'd been bumped, and Jim sat up from where he lay on the couch behind his.

"Artie?" Jim said, leaning over the back of the couch to see him. "Are you okay?"

"Besides being cold," Artie said, relieved to find Jim still on the train. For a moment, he'd thought they'd already arrived in Washington and Jim had left. "Why is the train stopped?"

Jim stood and walked over to the windows. "Because it's snowing too hard to see."

"What?"

Jim nodded as he watched the snow for a second, before going through the door and to their compartments to get some blankets. He came back and dumped them all on Artie, only keeping one for himself.

"You don't have to give me _all_ of them," Artie said, as Jim spread them over him.

Jim changed the subject. "Is your headache better now that you're resting?"

"Yes, thankfully. How long did I sleep?"

Jim looked at the clock and sat in the chair. "About nine hours."

Artie was surprised. "That long?" He glanced at the clock himself, finding it to be just after 8pm. "I don't even remember getting back here."

"You were pretty out of it," Jim said. He stood and went over to the windows again, looking out. "While we're in Washington, maybe we can get them to do something about the draft coming in these windows."

Eyes closed again, Artie absently nodded, even though Jim couldn't see it.

Jim stepped away from the windows and opened his mouth to talk again, but stopped when he saw his friend apparently going back to sleep.

"Yes, Jim?" Artie said, eyes still closed.

"I was going to ask if you wanted some food. You must be starving."

Artie suddenly realized that he hadn't eaten since the day before, and reopened his eyes. "You're definitely right about that."

"I'll heat up some of that stew you made the other night. That'll warm you up."

"Okay."

A half hour later, stew eaten, headache powder taken, Artie drifted back to sleep, much more comfortable.

Jim took the bowls back into the galley and put them in the sink, before quietly coming back out and looking out the windows again. The train had only traveled for six hours before they'd been forced to stop, and the journey would take thirty hours at top speed. They now had only two and a half days to make it to Washington, and Jim knew that with this snowstorm, there was the possibility of not making it in time to save President Grant's life…

TBC


	8. To President Grant

When Artie woke again, he heard voices coming from outside, and remembered the storm stopping their journey. He found that the train was still stopped, and suddenly realized that they were losing valuable time.

"Jim?" he called. He got no reply.

Throwing off the blankets, he carefully sat up, waiting to see if he got dizzy. He did, but it wasn't debilitating, so he slowly stood, holding onto the arm of the couch as he waited to see how his head would respond. The pain was still bad, but not crippling like the first day had been. Still feeling weak, and not wanting to overdo it again, he braced himself on whatever was in his path as he made his way down the hall and to the front of the train. Opening the door, he squinted against a gust of cold wind and snowflakes as he walked out and stood at the rail.

Jim and the train's operators were outside about thirty feet away, having cleared the snow from the tracks in front of the train.

Artie was dismayed to see that there appeared to be a foot of snow on the ground. What now fell from the sky was light, which he hoped was a sign that the storm was ending.

"Artie!" he suddenly heard.

Artemus looked back towards his friend, who was jogging towards him.

"Get back inside!" Jim called.

Artie waited until Jim reached him. "How long have you been out here?"

"At least an hour," Jim said, climbing the steps and taking Artie's arm, ushering him in. "You shouldn't be up, nevermind outside…how do you feel?"

"Better than yesterday," Artie told him as they headed back to the last train car. He let out a breath and closed his eyes as he sat back down on the couch. Getting up had increased his headache.

"We'll be underway again soon," Jim said. "Once enough snow is cleared from the tracks for the train to gain enough speed to cut through it."

"Slower though," said Artie, knowing that the train could skid on ice and derail.

Jim sighed. "Yeah." He took off his hat and shook off the snow, tossing it onto the table and removing his coat.

Artemus sighed. "Have you considered what we'll do if we don't make it in time?" he asked.

"The telegraph is out of the question," said Jim. "Because it's out."

Artie frowned. "Out?"

Jim nodded, going into the galley. "The wires must be down from the storm," he called out. "We can't transmit."

Artie scrubbed a hand over his face in dismay, and accidentally bumped his injury. He gave an audible gasp, just as Jim came out with a tray of coffee.

Jim put the tray on the table, watching as Artie carefully felt his wound through the bandage. "We should change that," he said.

Artie nodded, reaching up to take it off.

Jim poured a cup of coffee and brought it over to him. "Here." He handed it over, and started unwrapping the bandage.

Artie drank the coffee in two gulps, before his entire body jerked and he nearly dropped the cup. "Yeeeeh! Your hands are freezing!" he exclaimed.

Jim chuckled as he dropped the old bandages onto the floor. "Sorry."

"How's it look?"

"No different. Maybe I should go get you a snowball to hold on it, to take down some of the swelling."

Artie grimaced at the thought. "No thanks, I'll live."

Jim left the room to get more bandages, and Artie ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. Wanting to see his injury again, he once more got off the couch, ignoring the lightheadedness that he was sure would continue to plague him for the foreseeable future.

When Jim came back in, Artemus was standing in front of the mirror that hung on the far wall. Jim placed the bandages on the table, with a sigh. "You could've asked me for a mirror. You need all the rest you can get, Artie, if you expect to be of any use to the President when we arrive."

"I know, but I don't want to fall asleep again yet." Finished looking at the nasty wound, Artie sat in a chair at the table. "I wake up too groggy and confused."

"Which is more proof that you need to rest," Jim told him, dipping a towel into a bowl of water and gently patting it over the wound.

Artie tried not to flinch. He stayed still until Jim was finished wrapping a clean bandage around his head. "Thanks," he said, before reaching for the coffeepot.

"Anytime, pal," Jim replied. His smile turned into a frown when Artie almost missed the cup when he poured the coffee.

"Whoops," Artie said. "Still a little uncoordinated."

Before Jim could reply, the train's whistle suddenly blew, startling them both. The massive vehicle came to life, jerkily, as it crunched through ice and snow. It was very turbulent, and Jim automatically grabbed Artie's arm and the back of his chair, to keep him stable.

"Well," Artie said, once the ride smoothed out. "That was rough."

Jim sighed, thanking God that Artie had been sitting. If he'd fallen and hit his head again…

He suddenly noticed that Artie was pouring himself another cup of coffee. Jim reached over and put a hand on his arm, stopping him. "You already had two cups. Don't you think that much caffeine is unwise in your state?"

"I'm trying to stay awake."

"That doesn't sound very responsible," Jim said. He suddenly adopted a rueful expression. "In fact, our usual roles seem reversed right now."

"Ha ha," Artemus said, moving Jim's hand and drinking his coffee. After he put the cup down, he looked up at Jim before putting his elbows on the table and covering his eyes with his hands. "You're right. I'm being a fool. I don't know what's gotten into me."

Seizing his opportunity, Jim put a hand under Artie's arm and wrapped his other arm around his friend's back, pulling him out of the chair. "It's the concussion, Artie, you're not yourself."

"Ah," said Artie, as Jim led him back to the couch. "So you agree that I'm being a fool."

Jim shook his head. "Not at all. You're intelligent, witty, and a good friend, and it's my job to help you get well." He sat his friend down and pushed him to lie flat. "Go to sleep."

Instead of closing his eyes, Artie looked up at him. Though he always knew that he was Jim's best friend, Jim wasn't one to often discuss his emotions. Now that he was lying down, Artie felt sleep pulling at him, despite the caffeine. "Thanks, Jim," he whispered, eyes sliding shut.

Jim smiled down at him. "You're welcome, Artie."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Artemus woke the next morning, he could immediately tell that the train was going slower. He carefully sat up and looked over the back of the couch, to find that Jim was not lying on the other one. His head still hurt, but he didn't feel as groggy upon waking this time, so he remained reclining half-sat up.

Jim suddenly walked into the room, and noticed that his friend was awake. "Mornin', Artie. How do you feel?"

"Morning. I'm better…the headache is finally bearable."

"That's good to hear," Jim said.

Artie studied him for a minute. "You look like you have bad news."

"It's snowing again. We'll have to deal with it the whole way to Washington."

Artie opened his mouth to ask how Jim could possibly know that, when it suddenly hit him. Storms moved from west to east, just as their train was. "Then it's a real possibility that we might not make it in time," he said.

Jim gave no reply.

"Is the telegraph still out?" Artie asked.

Jim nodded.

Both agents were quiet for a minute, as they had to accept the fact that President Grant could be dead in less than twenty-four hours.

"There has to be something that we can do!" Artie exclaimed. Ulysses Grant wasn't just their president; he'd become their personal friend.

"We'll have to hope for the best," said Jim. "We still have until 8am tomorrow morning to get there. The snow will probably cause a delay in everyone arriving at the meeting, which will give us even more time."

Artie sighed, anxiety increasing his headache. He didn't realize that he'd started rubbing his head until a cup was suddenly held out to him, and he had to lower his hand to take it. "Tea?" he said, looking into the cup. "Is this your prescription, Dr. West?" After yesterday, he'd had a feeling that Jim would deny him coffee.

"No, it's just a substitute. _This_ is the prescription," Jim answered, as he poured a little bit of brandy into it.

"That's better," said Artemus, as he sipped it. "Not bad."

Jim smiled and added some to his own before putting the bottle down. The two of them were quiet as they drank their tea, both worried over the situation.

Artie eventually closed his eyes, with a sigh.

Jim reached over to re-fill his cup. "We'll get there in time, Artie," he said, echoing his friend's words from two days ago. "Have we ever failed before?"

Artie half-smiled. "We _do_ have a pretty good track record, don't we? Despite the frequent knocks on the head."

Jim chuckled.

"Have you thought up a plan for when we arrive?" Artie asked.

Jim nodded. "It's simple. You stay with the President while I find the spy."

Artie nodded back, having come up with the same thing. "Whoever it is, he won't get past me." He raised his teacup. "To President Grant."

Jim reached over and clicked his cup against Artie's. "To President Grant."

TBC


	9. Does it Ever End?

Despite the falling snow, the train covered quite a distance through the day, though they knew that they'd likely have to stop once it got too dark.

Jim refused to let Artie get up for any reason, and Artie cooperated, knowing that he had to be in as good a shape as possible once they arrived in Washington.

Around nine o'clock that night, the train was still moving, the conductor trying to get as far as they could before stopping…for once they did, they'd have to go outside and clear the track again once daylight came.

Jim was playing solitaire at the table, and Artemus was itching to get up and stretch his legs, so he quietly sat up and stood, slowly meandering over to the window.

"Do you think that I can't see you, Artie?" Jim said, placing another card in the appropriate place.

"No," Artie said, moving the curtain and looking out. "I just hoped that you were too engrossed in your game to notice."

Jim placed his cards down and approached the windows too, looking out himself. "We'll have to stop soon."

"I know."

"We managed to get pretty far today…we should make Washington by eight in the morning if we get outside to shovel as soon as there's light."

Artie walked over to the table and looked at Jim's cards. "I don't suppose—"

Jim turned and walked over to him. "Under no circumstances, Artie."

"But I feel better."

"I'm glad, but 'feel better' and 'completely recovered' are not the same thing. You're in no shape to shovel snow…you'd relapse right back to square one."

Artemus sighed. He opened his mouth to say something else, but suddenly, something seemed to impact with the front of the train, and a loud screech sounded as the conductor hit the brakes.

Both men, taken by surprise, were instantly thrown forward. Jim somehow managed to grab his friend and turn their bodies so that he would take the most impact.

They hit the floor hard and slid across to the far wall, slamming into it painfully. The train continued to screech and rock, and seemed to take forever before it finally came to a stop.

Jim realized that he had a death-grip on his friend, and quickly loosened his hold. "Artie, are you all right?" he asked, anxiously.

Artie's eyes were closed and he was gasping. "I…_did_…feel better," he said, with a hand on his head.

Jim sat up and carefully laid his friend flat. "Did you hit your head again?"

Artie shook his head. "Had the…breath…knocked out of me…"

Jim inhaled deeply. "I know what you mean. Any injuries?"

Artie thought for a minute. "Just bruises…I think." He tried to sit up, but winced and changed his mind.

Jim sighed and remained sitting beside his friend, waiting to move him until he was ready.

"Are _you_ hurt, Jim?" Artie suddenly asked, opening his eyes. "I landed on you…"

"I'm fine, Artie, I'm not the one with the concussion whose head has been jolted how many times in the last few days?"

Artie closed his eyes again. "_Too_ many." He took a deep breath before holding out his arm.

Jim took it and slowly pulled him up. Artemus wobbled unsteadily before suddenly pitching sideways into him, almost knocking them both to the floor as another attack of vertigo seized him.

"Ooh, does it ever end?" Artie moaned.

Jim quickly pulled him over to the couch and laid him down, watching anxiously as his friend put a hand over his eyes, his face paler than he'd been a few minutes ago. "Artie?"

"I'm fine," was his mumbled answer.

Jim sighed and watched him for another minute, until Artie lowered his hand and reopened his eyes. "Don't move; I'm going to find out what happened."

Artie nodded. As soon as Jim headed down the hall and was out of sight, he slowly sat up and rubbed his aching head for a minute before carefully standing again and following at a distance, using the wall for support. The train had obviously hit something, and he had no idea when Jim would be back to inform him of what had happened. He stood back as Jim spoke to the conductor, who had a hand over his chest, as if he were in utter shock. He looked very upset, and Artie fully understood why…the train could've derailed and killed them all.

Suddenly the conductor looked beyond Jim, spotting Artie.

Jim turned and looked at him, before saying something else to the conductor and heading towards his friend. He opened his mouth to ask what Artemus was doing up, but realized how pointless it would be. "Something was on the tracks under the snow, and there'd been no way for him to see it before the impact. He thinks that it might be a tree."

"A tree?" Artie said. "How are we supposed to get it off the tracks and make it to Washington on time?"

Jim sighed. "_Quickly_."

Artie shook his head, not caring that it hurt. "You have to let me help, Jim…there must be _something_ that I can do!"

"With those dizzy spells?" Jim replied.

Artie sighed, lowering his head.

Jim knew how Artemus felt…he wouldn't be able to stand by and watch, either. He clapped him on the shoulder before transferring his grip to Artie's arm. "Let's go get our jackets."

They both went back and donned their coats, hats, gloves, and scarves. Jim wisely changed into the type of outfit that Artie often wore…boots over his pants. When they returned, the conductor and other train operators were already in front of the train, staring in dismay at what proved to indeed be a tree.

Jim and Artie went down the steps, walking through what appeared to be seven or eight inches of snow, squinting against the train's headlights. "We gotta get rid of this thing _now_," Jim said. "The president's life is at stake."

Everyone nodded. One of the men was holding an axe, and he headed over to the middle of the tracks and started hacking away at the tree.

Jim took Artie's arm and headed back to the steps, walking him up them to get to shelter from the still-falling snow. "There's nothing that we can do right now," he told Artie. "Not until the tree is in pieces."

Artie knew that was true.

For a long time, they stood and watched. When it became obvious that it would take an hour or more to cut the tree in half, Jim forced Artie to go back inside, seeing no point in standing out in the cold any longer.

Artie sighed heavily as he sat back down on the couch. "First the code gets stolen, then a storm delays us, and now a fallen tree. What _else_ can go wrong?"

Jim removed his coat and shook off his hat. "We don't have _time_ for anything else to go wrong. We'll have to work all night to get rid of the tree and clear the tracks, so we can get going again as soon as possible."

Artie took off his own hat and started unbuttoning his coat. "Grant is going to have to give all of us a few days off in Washington at a nice hotel, to catch up on all the sleep that everyone is losing." He shrugged. "Except for me. _Someone_ keeps making sure that I get more sleep than I need!"

Jim chuckled as he pulled the coat from Artie's arms. "You're welcome."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was almost midnight by the time the men finished cutting the tree and removing it from the tracks. Once that was done, they worked on clearing away the snow, which was falling heavier and had accumulated to twelve inches.

Jim changed his friend's bandage, and afterwards, Artie paced—stopping after five seconds when it made him dizzier than he already was.

Jim forced him to sit down before he could suffer another attack. "Why don't you go to sleep, Artie, there's nothing that you can do," Jim said, as he put his coat on again in preparation to go outside and help shovel.

Artie sighed, having accepted the facts. No one with a concussion should lift anything heavy, and he knew that. "Fine," he mumbled.

Jim clapped him on the shoulder. "Just think, nine or ten hours from now, we could be devouring a huge breakfast at President Grant's table."

Artie smiled. "I hope there's pancakes."

"After we save his life, I'm sure he'll be happy to feed you whatever you'd like."

Artie chuckled as Jim went off down the hall. He sat on the couch for a few minutes more, before deciding to sleep in his bed, which he had missed the past couple of nights…plus, he'd have a better chance of hearing when Jim came back in.

Going into his compartment, he changed into his nightclothes and climbed into his bed, giving a sigh of contentment at the feel of the soft mattress. He was asleep within minutes, after saying a quick prayer that they'd arrive in Washington in time to save the President's life.

When Jim came back into the train a few hours later, he didn't expect to find the main room empty. Backtracking, he peeked into Artie's compartment and found him fast asleep in his bed. He was glad that his friend had listened to him, but now he was about to be jolted awake by the train starting back up.

"Artie," he whispered, going over to the bed. "Artie?"

He got no answer. Jim reached out and touched his arm. "Artie, wake up."

Artemus moved his head slightly, and his eyes fluttered. "Humm?" he said.

"In a minute or two, you're really gonna wish that you woke up faster, pal."

Jim's words got through, and Artie opened his eyes. "Huh? Jim?"

"The train is about to start moving again…I didn't want you startled out of your wits," Jim told him.

"Oh." Artie rubbed his eyes, which were having trouble staying open. "What time's it?" he slurred.

"A little after three," Jim said.

"_Three_…" Artie moaned, throwing an arm over his eyes, careful not to touch his forehead.

Suddenly, the whistle blew, and the train started moving. The start-up was as turbulent as the day before had been, with the snow and ice hampering its efforts.

Once the ride smoothed out, a half-asleep Artie said, "Can I go back to sleep now?"

"Sure, Artie. See you in the morning."

"Mmm hmm," Artie answered, dropping right off.

Jim left his friend's compartment and went into his own, hoping that he could get a few hours of sleep himself before they arrived in Washington…it would be close, but he was confident that they would arrive in time to stop the spy.

As he fell asleep, he hoped that Artie was in good enough shape to protect the President, and wouldn't suffer a relapse—or further injury—from the attempt…

TBC


	10. Might not Make it!

Artie jumped awake the next morning after hearing a noise. He laid there for a few seconds before he remembered the situation, and quickly looked at the clock on his nightstand.

It read 7:37am.

Shocked, he quickly sat up and jumped out of his bed, having to grab onto the nightstand to hold himself up when his haste sent his brain spinning and his head aching.

Suddenly, Jim walked into the room, having come to wake him. "Are you all right?" he said, hurrying over.

"Got up too fast. Jim, it's almost eight o'clock!" Artie answered.

"I know, we'll be pulling into the station in a few minutes." Jim opened Artie's closet and pulled out some clothes. "Here, quick!"

By 7:50, they were outside, Artie standing in the snow as Jim drove the wagon down the ramp. He held out his hand to pull his friend up onto the seat, and then they were off to the White House as fast as the wagon could get through the snow...which wasn't fast at all.

"This is ridiculous," Artie said, at their speed—or lack of. "We might not make it."

"Calm down, you know it's not far from here," Jim answered.

After what seemed like an eternity, they pulled through the gates of the White House and to the door, where Jim jumped down, having no consideration for the other wagons pulling up.

Artie, on the side of the wagon closest to the door, was already on the move and almost tripped down the last step right over Jim, who'd come around the side and reached up to help him down. Somehow catching each other, they stumbled through the snow, dashed up the steps, and passed the guard at the door before he even had a chance to ask who they were.

"Hey!" he yelled. "Stop!"

"Agents West and Gordon!" Jim yelled back, over his shoulder.

Something came flying at the guard and landed on the floor. He picked it up, to find that it was Jim's identification. "Oh," he said to himself.

Jim and Artie ran through the White House, straight to the room where they knew that the President would be. Jim had a strong grip on his friend's arm, knowing that he wasn't in any shape to run. Artie kept up with him, and they both slowed down as they approached the door, where they came to a stop, knowing that bursting in like a tornado would only serve to alert the spy, who could easily slip away.

Jim looked at his friend, to see how the run had affected him. "All right?"

"Oh, _sure_," Artie answered, breathing heavily, one hand on the wall. His eyes were closed against the pain and vertigo spinning his brain.

Jim caught his breath much faster and opened the door, peeking inside. He saw President Grant standing behind a table with a few other people, talking as they waited for others to arrive. Grant looked up and waved to someone off to the side before everyone suddenly started to sit down. "The meeting is starting, Artie…you all right now?"

"Yeah," Artie answered, opening his eyes. "Can't wait any longer anyway."

"Just head over to Grant and stay with him. I'll find the spy. If you spot something, yell."

Artie nodded his aching head, before slipping through the door ahead of Jim. He looked around as he headed to the President's table, who noticed him immediately and watched him approach.

Artie came behind the table and stood behind him, bending down to whisper. "Morning, Mr. President."

The Vice President was addressing the crowd, so Grant turned in his seat. "Artemus…I'm glad to see you! I wanted you and Jim to be here, but the storm knocked out the telegraph."

Artie nodded. "I know."

Grant gestured towards the bandage on Artie's head. "What happened? Are you all right?"

Artie wondered how many more times he would be asked if he was 'all right' in the next week. "It's a long story…we'll fill you in later." With that he stood upright again, keeping his guard post behind the President's chair.

Grant said something to the man sitting next to him…a senator that Artie recognized. The senator stood from his chair and moved away from the table. "Here," Grant told Artie, patting the arm of the chair. "You can guard me just as well while sitting."

Artemus started to protest the booting of the senator from his rightful place, before seeing that the man was simply fetching another chair for himself. He sat in the vacated spot, as the senator put his new chair beside him and sat.

The Vice President spoke for another minute before it was Grant's turn. Everyone started to clap as Grant stood. He nodded graciously before beginning his speech.

Artie mentally winced, to see the President unknowingly make himself such an easy target. He looked at the crowd, trying to figure out who the spy could be, as Jim prowled the huge, beautifully decorated room.

Jim looked at every single face that came into view, men and women alike. So far, he'd seen nothing that screamed, 'I'm the spy!' He glanced over at Artie, and was glad to see him sitting right next to the President. They locked gazes, and Jim shook his head, with Artie shaking his own in reply.

As time passed, Artie's heartbeat sped up. The longer it took for the spy to make his move, the harder it would be to catch him. What if he'd changed his mind? He and Jim couldn't leave knowing that the spy could attempt to kill the President at any time.

Soon, Grant was sitting again as he was brought a scroll, which he unwrapped and displayed to the crowd. "I'm proud to finally sign into law the Civil Rights Act of 1875." With that, he signed it.

Everyone stood and began clapping.

Grant stood himself and tipped his head in a bow, with a smile.

Artie, standing beside him, knew that this would be the spy's best chance to make his attempt. Frantically scanning the crowd, he suddenly saw a man in the back corner of the room yank a rifle out of his jacket and take aim. "Jim!" he shouted, pointing, before tackling Grant to the floor.

At the same moment, the gun went off.

Jim spotted the man at the same time that Artie had, and was already running towards him, as the spy dropped his gun and ran towards the window to make his escape.

Grant had covered his head with both arms, and after a few seconds, tried to get up. "You can get off me now, Artemus," he said.

The weight on his back didn't move, so Grant forced himself up, and was surprised when Artie simply dropped off him. He found the agent with his eyes closed, and, thinking that Artemus had been shot, he quickly searched him for a wound, and was relieved when he didn't find one.

The fight between Jim and the spy didn't last long, and Jim threw him unconscious to the floor, where local policemen quickly swarmed him.

Looking towards the table, Jim saw that a crowd had formed around where the President had been sitting. Knowing that those people would not be there if Grant was unharmed, he quickly ran over and pushed through the crowd, able to tell that someone was lying on the floor, and another person was bending over him. For an instant, he thought that they had failed, that Grant had been shot…but then he saw that Grant was the one bending over Artie.

"Mr. President, I said that I'm fine," Artie was saying, a hand on his head.

"You just risked your life to save mine, even while already injured," Grant replied, hands on Artie's shoulders to keep him flat. "You'll forgive me if I want to make sure."

Artemus sighed and laid his head back down on the floor.

"Artie?" Jim said, kneeling beside them, automatically looking for a gunshot wound.

"I'm not shot," Artie said, almost whining. "I had another dizzy spell after I knocked him down, that's all. I expected it."

"You were unconscious!" the President exclaimed.

"For what, a minute? That's nothing compared to all the _hours_ I spent unconscious over the past few days!"

It was exactly the wrong thing to say, and Artie mentally kicked himself for not thinking before he spoke.

"Well you'll just stay there until the doctor looks at you," said Grant.

Artie sighed, trying to ignore all the faces looking down at him. "Mr. President, _please_…you're embarrassing me. At least let me sit up."

"No."

Artie made an exasperated face at Jim, who chuckled in response.

The doctor entered the room and Grant turned to wave him over.

Artemus took advantage of the moment that the President's attention was off him. He grabbed Jim's arm and pulled himself to a sitting position, giving the President a 'who, me?' face when Grant looked at him again and was surprised to find him upright.

The doctor knelt beside them, and wasn't surprised to see who needed his services. "Well, what do we have here?" he said, knowing well what bad patients both Artie and Jim could be.

Ever hating being poked and prodded, Artie sighed. "I hope the pancakes are worth _this_."

TBC

One more small chapter to go!  
I created a WWW forum, which Whovian and I have been having a ball with so far, but I need more people in it! Give it a look-see and join! :-)


	11. Worth it

A short time later, the doctor pronounced Artemus on his way to mending, but still needing much rest. He warned him that the dizzy spells could possibly last for weeks, but would happen less often as time passed, if he took care of himself.

Everyone noticed how the doctor stressed the word 'if'. Artemus simply gave a sheepish smile.

At the moment, Artie was lying on a bed in one of the White House guest rooms, holding ice to his head, which the doctor had forced on him to try to take down some of the swelling. He and Jim were telling Grant of recent events, and the President was shocked.

"So that's what the code was that we sent you to find?" Grant said. "A message about a spy attempting to assassinate me today?"

"That's right," said Artie, wiping his eye when a drop of water escaped from the towel and dripped into it.

"I feel terrible that you were injured so severely on my account," Grant said, having been horrified at the sight of what lay under the bandage on Artie's head.

Artie waved a hand. "We're used to it, it happens all the time."

At Grant's puzzled look, Jim changed the subject. "Do you mind if we stay here for a few hours? I'm going to see if someone at the train station can fix a draft coming into some of the Wanderer's windows."

"A few hours? My boy, I hereby declare you both to be off duty," said Grant. "_You're_ on medical leave," he said to Artie. "And _you're_ on vacation," he told Jim. "You will both be my guests for the next week."

Artie smiled. "Well! Thank you, sir."

"Thank _you_," Grant replied. "I wouldn't be alive right now if not for you two. You both deserve a medal for this one."

"Did you hear that, Jim?" Artie said, removing the freezing-cold ice from his forehead. "_That'll_ impress the ladies!"

Jim chuckled.

The door opened and someone poked their head through. "Mr. President?"

Grant nodded to the man before looking at Jim and Artie. "Excuse me…no doubt the press got wind of what happened and are looking for a statement—"

Artie's stomach suddenly growled an interruption.

"And _that_ was quite a statement itself," said the President, smiling. "Hungry, Artemus?"

Artie gave a sheepish smile. "Famished."

Grant chuckled. "I'll have the cook send you both up some breakfast. I expect you to rest while you're here, Artemus. No traipsing around the White House today."

"Yes sir."

Grant smiled again before heading towards the door. Jim followed and said something to him, but Artie didn't notice, having closed his eyes.

Jim closed the door behind the president and came back over to the bed. "How you feeling?"

Artie opened his eyes. "Not too bad I guess, considering." He reached up to put the ice back on his head, before changing his mind and putting it on the nightstand. "We made it, Jim…after all that, we actually made it."

Jim nodded and sat on the side of the bed. "Yeah…things could've turned out differently."

They were both silent for a minute as they pondered _how_ differently things could've been.

Artie gave a deep sigh and tiredly closed his eyes again. "Wake me when the food comes."

"Always," said Jim.

Artie chuckled, and dozed off.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and a cook wearing a chef's hat rolled a cart into the room.

Jim went over and thanked him, before pushing it over to the bed. "Wake up, Artie…room service has arrived."

Artie's eyes were already open. "I could smell it a mile away."

Jim looked under the plate covers, before grinning and picking up one of the trays and placing it on his friend's lap. "This one is yours."

"How do you know that?" Artie asked, lifting the cover to find…

Pancakes. A dozen pancakes.

Artie blinked. "How—?"

"I told Grant as he was leaving," Jim said; reaching over and pouring on the syrup, before placing the bottle back on the cart.

"Jim?" Artie said, pointing his finger down at the pancakes.

Jim chuckled and poured on more syrup…nearly the whole bottle before Artie waved it away. Jim watched as his friend dug his fork into the stack and took a huge bite.

"So, were the pancakes worth it all, Artie?" he asked.

Artemus, his mouth full, could only nod. "Umm humm!"

THE END

Thanks for reading, everyone! I had so much fun writing this story!

Stay tuned: I have an episode tag coming up next, and then another story after that!


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